


Begin Again

by grandilloquism



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 16:52:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19277455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandilloquism/pseuds/grandilloquism
Summary: He reached out and covered the hand Crowley had loosely balled on the table with his own, smiling once again. Crowley's head slipped off the fist supporting it and Aziraphale wondered if he was always this way so soon after waking up, soft about the edges and slightly muzzled, as they got sometimes after putting a good effort in with the wine, or the scotch, or, indeed, the brandy.He took his hand back, and fussed with his napkin a bit. "Well, thank you," he said. "I am grateful, Crowley." He set his napkin down and turned his attention to fussing with the cutlery, instead. "Have you," he clucked his tongue and folded his hands in his lap, "have you given any thought to the prophecy?"





	Begin Again

**Author's Note:**

> Hat tip to Bon Appetit magazine for helping me decide What Aziraphale Eats, the many, many websites I consulted for Angel Lore, none of which I ended up using, the Good Housekeeping listicle that helped me decide on an appropriately lustrous houseplant, and Mr. Sheen for the invaluable character insight. The music at the end is Brahms' Violin Sonata No. 2 in A Major, Op.100, title is from The Veils' song of the same name. Both are a good listen.

The day after the end of the world seemed remarkable only in that it existed at all. In London it was a cool day, a bit drizzly, and all the people went along as if this day were merely another in a 6000 years-long line of them, as assured as any other.  They didn't know, of course, but that didn't stop the wonder Aziraphale felt, watching them from the windows of Crowley's flat.

It was, in other ways, a strange morning.  He had woken up, for one. He didn't usually go in for sleep, but Crowley _had_ insisted on sleeping himself and when it came to such matters Aziraphale had always subscribed firmly to the belief of _when in Rome_. He had risen with the birds, as they say, just as the sun was feeling its way around Mayfair. He had risen, and made tea, and puttered a bit about Crowley's kitchen, ostensibly in an effort to make breakfast, though the particulars of this act eluded him.

He wondered, as he gave up looking for a toasting fork and simply _believed_ that the babka had been toasted, if there was still someone Up There tallying up his miracles. And, if there were, what did it matter?

They knew, now, all of them. Gabriel, Michael, that wretched Sandalphon, and the others: Beelzebub and Hastur, and, Aziraphale' s grip tightened harshly on the marmalade at just the thought, Lucifer. It had _hurt_ , being in Lucifer's presence. The anger that had rolled off him, that had driven Crowley to his knees, had felt like barbs sinking into the skin. Aziraphale shuddered. Poor, dear Adam, facing him down. What a clever boy. They had all been truly blessed that things had worked out as they had. That dared larger questions, of course, questions he hoped he would still be around to ask.

It was very lucky that Crowley's kitchen turned out to be so well stocked, and with so many of the things that Aziraphale was particularly partial to, because for the life of him he was unable to fathom the use of any of the little doodads that were set out on the counters like so many art pieces.

Aziraphale was able to sit down to a nice little breakfast of milky tea and toast with marmalade, with several small, flaky chaussons aux Pommes and a healthy slice of tart cherry galette. He was dusting the crumbs from his waistcoat when Crowley made his appearance.

"Oh, er," he said, stopping in door. He wasn't wearing his glasses and his eyes were moving over the empty plates.

Aziraphale felt warm at the sight of him. He couldn't help his smile, or the way he said, "Crowley," with a soft, sweet resonance. "Good morning, dear boy."

Crowley patted at his pockets, pulling his glasses out and slipping them into place. "Angel," he said, with that particular intonation that made Aziraphale's toes curl. "Still here, then?"

"Well, yes," he said, patting his mouth with a napkin and ignoring the disappointment he felt at the reappearance of the smoked glasses. "There are matters we must discuss, still, and of course I wouldn't have just _left_ in the _night_ , after your kindness in letting my stay here."

Aziraphale could _feel_ Crowley rolling his eyes. " _Kind_ ," he spat, but nonetheless took the seat across from Aziraphale with all evident good humour, propping his chin on his fist. "Well?" he prompted. "What is it you're so keen on, other than my larder?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale's hands came up in a paroxysm of guilt. "Oh, I do hope you didn't mind me helping myself, my dear!"

Crowley waved him away. "No," he said, "no, no, it's, er, well- feel free to help yourself anytime, angel."

He reached out and covered the hand Crowley had loosely balled on the table with his own, smiling once again. Crowley's head slipped off the fist supporting it and Aziraphale wondered if he was always this way so soon after waking up, soft about the edges and slightly muzzled, as they got sometimes after putting a good effort in with the wine, or the scotch, or, indeed, the brandy.  

He took his hand back, and fussed with his napkin a bit. "Well, thank you," he said. "I am grateful, Crowley." He set his napkin down and turned his attention to fussing with the cutlery, instead. "Have you," he clucked his tongue and folded his hands in his lap, "have you given any thought to the prophecy?"

"Ye must choose your faces wisely," Crowley quoted, affecting something of an accent, "for soon enough ye will be playing with fire."

"That's the one."

Crowley shrugged, it was a movement that employed rather more of his body than one might deem strictly necessary. "You read her book, what do _you_ think?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Well, Agnes did tend towards the absolutely literal, though not quite straightforward. If I had to guess," he hesitated, looking away, out a window obscured by a particularly striving specimen of _f. lyrata._ "Well, I would be inclined to interpret her literally. We should _choose_ faces, there will be," he waved a hand, "fire involved."

"Yes," Crowley said, tapping his fingers on the table to a swift four-count, then rising with a sudden frenetic energy to pace about the table. "Yes!" he repeated, this time at a shout. "Choose _our_ faces! _Ours_! Fire! Oooh!" He bent at the waist, slapping his hands down on the table and staring directly into Aziraphale's eyes at a distance that was a little too close for comfort.  

Aziraphale blinked a bit desperately, training his gaze on the hint of yellow he could glimpse beyond the darkened glass. "I-" he cleared his throat,"yes, er."

The trick, the one that Aziraphale had been employing for any number of years now, was not to think of taking Crowley's face in his hands, of stroking his thumbs over the fine skin of his cheeks, of pressing their mouths together and sharing the sweet breath of their mortal bodies, of pressing their bodies together and sharing the divinity of their immortal souls. He flushed and sat back in his chair.

"We switch," Crowley said, as if he had not briefly caused the foundations of Aziraphale's world to shudder. "We switch places! If they threaten you with hellfire, why I can just walk right in! If they want to use holy water on me, you can shake it right off, easy as you please."

"Yes," Aziraphale agreed, coming back to his senses somewhat. "Rather."

Crowley grinned at him, Aziraphale's senses took another hit.

#

Later, after the hellfire and the holy water had been sorted, and the drizzly morning had turned into a somewhat sunny afternoon, and that afternoon had turned into a mild summer's evening, Aziraphale and Crowley were taking their leave of the Ritz's dining room.  They had lingered so long over lunch that it had become dinner, and Aziraphale was full to the brim of his favorite earthly indulgences: good food, excellent champagne, and pleasurable company.

He couldn't remember a time he had felt so free as he had walking out of Hell, wearing Crowley's guise and smiling as the demons all flinched at the simple sight of him. That feeling had persisted, and he felt giddy with it as he invited Crowley back to his for after-dinner drinks.

Aziraphale found something suitable in the cellar, and they settled into the shop's backroom. Brahms played gently from the gramophone and Crowley was just where Aziraphale loved him most: sunk deep into the cushions of the sofa, a wine glass in one hand, his glasses tucked away and an easy smile on his face. Aziraphale got up to refill his glass then, feeling bold, arranged himself at his side. Their knees touched, ever so slightly.

They had sat closer, and more recently, but Aziraphale's memory went back to that night in the Bentley, when he had let his fear rule him. In his own defense, there had been much to fear. But Her plan was ineffable, he had been reminded of that, and they were their own side now: Crowley and he, and an ex-Antichrist and his small gang of Oxfordshire children, and a professional descendent and her failed computer engineer boyfriend. It was them and the seven billion other residents of this marvelous Earth, that loved and fought and worshipped and blasphemed, that would be there to defend it, when the time came. The assembled powers of Earth against the ranks of Hell and the hosts of Heaven- a real Final Test. But not for a while, a good long while, if Aziraphale had any say in it, and he rather thought he did.

Aziraphale set his glass down and placed his hand firmly on Crowley's knee.

Crowley looked over from where he had been staring off into the middle-distance, woolgathering. He looked down at Aziraphale's hand, and then up at his face. His eyes held a question.

"My dear," he said, and smiled, he couldn't _help_ but smile, taking in the sweet familiar sight of Crowley's face, the curve of his mouth and the particular shade of his eyes, their pupils widened in the dimly lit room. "Oh, my dear," he repeated, and leaned in.

He was met, halfway. They kissed, smiling, to the swell of a violin, with the taste of champagne shared in their mouths.


End file.
